


A Handful of Feathers

by Dreamy_Darling



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Blood and Injury, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Gabriel is a Prick, I'm so sorry I needed to write something angsty, M/M, Mild Gore, Mild torture, Protective Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 01:06:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21908743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreamy_Darling/pseuds/Dreamy_Darling
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale have had to keep more than just fraternizing a secret from their sides. And just as the dust starts to settle after Armageddon't, the couple are in for a nasty surprise. And now Crowley has to pick up the pieces, feather by feather.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 82





	1. By the Pond

“Do you think we’re okay now?”

Crowley’s attention was snapped back to Aziraphale. They were in the park, buying ice cream. It was a warm day, and sunny, and all the chatter seemed to be about the rumours of mass hallucinations and reports of aliens. They’d done it. Somehow, by the tiniest of threads, they’d stopped Armageddon in its tracks. Where Crowley currently stood was a park and a disinterested ice cream vendor, what was supposed to be there by this time was lava and brimstone.  
  


Crowley looked around and nodded cautiously. “Not heard anything on your side?”

  
“I think they’d be appalled at the thought of me still on _their_ side, but no. Not a squeak.” Aziraphale sighed in relief as he took the Mr Whippy from his demon. And Crowley was _his_ demon, as much as Aziraphale was _his_ angel. They’d had more to hide than fraternizing, so much more than afternoon tea and evening drinks. What had started on the wall of a garden had unexpectedly bloomed, much like the very first flowers kept inside it. He studied Crowley’s face for just a moment, such strong features that had taken Aziraphale by surprise when he’d first seen him; sharp cheekbones he’d longed to reach out and touch to see if they would cut his fingers. In the old days, he had loved watching his demon’s eyes shift from shades of lemon to gold as the sun hit Crowley’s face. How he longed to see the sun on them again, instead of from the dimmer light of the bookshop.

Crowley turned to him, and it was Aziraphale’s turn to be brought back to reality. Crowley shook his head. “Hm. Nothing on my end either.”

“Do you think… do you think perhaps it would be alright to…?” He held out his hand to Crowley. Kisses, hugs, anything that could be interpreted as somewhat affectionate, even from a mile off, was deemed to risky to do outside the bookshop. Everything had to be concealed, hidden in code. They’d had 6000 years to get used to keeping alert outside, so Aziraphale sadly understood when Crowley hesitated.

“They could still be watching. I find it hard to believe they’d just let us off. We did crash the most important party of the universe.”

Aziraphale nodded a little, but continued, “Though… they may both be taking a breather. Perhaps backing off, to see what the other does. And besides,” he smiled up at Crowley as they walked, “they already know we’re, well, on our own side. They know we’re friends, at least.”

Crowley was still reluctant, but hardly out of not wanting to. His angel just had such a welcoming tone to him, always had. Even when they had actually viewed each other as enemies. It had been nothing short of 6000 years of torture for Crowley, keeping him at arm’s length – a lot of the time literally. He wanted to hold hands, link arms with him, do all the soppy crap that he saw couples do. He’d never admit it, but he did. Honestly, a demon of all creatures, longing for cliché romantic gestures. Was it a remnant of his angelic creation the forces of Hell had somehow not crushed? Something he’d picked up from humans? Or was it maybe Aziraphale just being too damn _loveable_?

He’d never let on to the rest of the hordes Downstairs that he was capable of loving anything more than his car. It was a material thing, a Greedy sinful thing, so that was acceptable. Anything beyond that and he’d likely be flayed and handed out in chunks on paper plates, whether it was an angel he loved, a human, or even another demon. Love was not an affair that demons dabbled in, no discussion.

But then he’d met Aziraphale, gotten to know him not as an enemy but as a person, someone who understood Crowley and someone Crowley could understand and accept, even appreciate. And then love was an open, heatedly debated, constantly see-sawed between outright denial and tenderly reflecting on, discussion. All within the demon’s head, and not a single word uttered aloud. In fact it would have likely stayed that way far longer than it did had Aziraphale not be the one to bring it up one night, in a city that had been wiped off the map long ago. One night when they were both drunk and miserable after being subjected to all the unique types of nastiness either sides had to offer, when they both so desperately needed some kindness, some _love_.

They both knew the risks. Both knew what would happen if they were caught. But Crowley wasn’t afraid of facing the Hellfire alone. What would make it so much worse would be seeing Aziraphale marched off to the same pit as him. He could only imagine the screams, the smell of burning feathers, the _sight_ that had haunted his nightmares so vividly they’d almost put him off sleeping. He couldn’t risk that.

“They already know this much,” Aziraphale’s voice nearly made him jump, and he noticed that his ice lolly was leaving long pink drips of sticky syrup down his fingers, “and they haven’t done anything. I know how much danger we’ve been in, my dear.” Aziraphale moved so he faced his demon. “Believe me, I know. But if they were going to punish us, surely they would have done so by now before we mucked up any more of their plans.”

Crowley sighed, poking the melting ice lolly with his forked tongue. His angel had a point. But the fear of punishment from either side had been branded into him, and he wondered if it would ever go away. But Aziraphale’s features softened, and he smiled so warmly. “I can wait, dear. I’ll wait another 6000 years if I must. We _do_ have all of eternity now, after all.”

Crowley smiled at that, “well, at least until they figure out some new diabolical world ending plan. Don’t see how Satan could be limited to one kid.”

Aziraphale chuckled as they began to walk to the pond. “I don’t think that will be happening for a while, dear.”

And so they watched the ducks and finished their cold treats, as they had done so many times before. The air was starting to cool, and the park slowly became emptier. Aziraphale rested his head on Crowley’s shoulder. He could feel his demon suppress a flinch, stiffening at the touch. But then, he slowly unwound again, and sighed as they watched the ducks and pigeons and swans going about their own tasks. Crowley shut his eyes, letting the moment settle in his chest, smothering the teeth-chattering anxiety of being caught. The softness of Aziraphale’s hair tickling his cheek, the reassuring feeling of their arms touching, the loving quietness they held together as the gentle chill drifted around them. He had to smile. They’d really done it.

Aziraphale lifted his head from Crowley’s shoulder, and his demon let out a content sigh. “What’s the matter with us today?” asked Crowley, “we didn’t bring any bread – Angel?”

Aziraphale was gone. Crowley was alone in the park. Until a muffled scream cut above the sounds of gentle chatter and birdsong and traffic. When Crowley turned, he just barely caught sight of his angel being dragged away, someone’s hands gripping his mouth and dragging him down the street. An elderly couple a few meters away didn’t even look up from their books.

“AZIRAPHALE -!” Whatever else he wanted to say was cut off by a sharp whack to the back of his head. He thought he could see wings for a moment, wings that blocked out the sun with their own glow, before his face hit the concrete.


	2. Renegade Angels Tied Up With Strings (And a Few More of Our Least Favourite Things)

A burning throb roused Crowley from his coma. He tried to lift himself, only to hiss as whatever was beneath his hands seemed to singe his skin. And his face, and his knees and his feet. Crowley knew this type of burning. He knew and dreaded and feared and hated it. _Consecrated ground._

“Ah! Starting to wake up, I see?” A man’s voice, all too cheerful, erupted from above him, along with the sound of tapping metal. Crowley couldn’t understand it, not yet. The light around him was blinding, unforgiving, sterile. His glasses were long gone. He reached out and felt a piping hot metal pole, and yanked his hand back. Once his stinging eyes adjusted, he could finally begin to fathom the septic scents and baring light.

“Oh _fuck no_.”

He was in Heaven.

The room he was in was a clinical white and wide in all directions, taking away any sense of guidance. He couldn’t tell what way he was facing, if it was right or wrong, left or right. The only thing that seemed to help give him some sense was a neat set of low stairs leading up to a slowly spinning globe. And the pole he’d touched was one of many – he was in a burning, sanctified cage. A very special type of torture indeed. Demons just weren’t meant to be in Heaven, weren’t meant to breathe in the air or be laid bare to the light. Each breath made his lungs feel dried out, sucked the moisture out of his skin and caused his already-thumping head to pound. The light was hot, and he couldn’t stand still for even a moment lest the holy ground burn straight through his shoes.

Gabriel shook his head, crossing his arms as he stood in front of the demon in his cage. “Is this how demons dance, or are you a very special case, hm?” He tilted his head mockingly at Crowley, who hissed at him. He tried to be menacing, but he was in too much pain to ensure it had worked – which it didn’t.

“Oh go easy on me, Anthony.”

“ _Crowley_.”

“…anyway, Anthony, I imagine you know why you’ve been called here.” He began to circle the cage all the way around. “You’ve gotten us into a little spot of bother, it seems.”

“Sorry we – ack! - sorry we aren’t all on board with killing every living organism to prove a point.” He hopped from foot to foot, the burning making him hiss and groan. “Where’s Aziraphale?!”

“Wow, really? You’ve barely been apart and you’re already missing him?” Gabriel feigned surprise, running his perfectly manicured fingers through his perfectly styled hair. “That’d almost be endearing if, you know, you weren’t a demon. Or a traitor. Bring him in.”

He’d turned to an angel Crowley didn’t recognize, who was gone before Crowley would have had a chance to recognize anyway. Within moments, a group of at least 6 angels came in, all gripping different parts of Aziraphale – the back of his neck, his shoulders, his hands, his elbows, his _wings_. They were out and being held too tightly. He couldn’t even turn his head. His mouth was forced shut with what looked like pure white surgical tape, and his hands were bound with sterilized rope bleached the same colour. They ignored Crowley’s protests, but Aziraphale could at least look sadly at him once he heard his demon’s voice.

Aziraphale was plopped down on his knees at the top of the stairs, parallel to the cage. It was like it had been choreographed. It probably had been. He winced as an angel tore off the tape from his mouth, and Crowley winced with him.

“Now,” Gabriel clapped his hands, smiling menacingly (as if he could smile any other way), “2 traitors on 2 different sides of the war. What shall we do with you both?”

“Holy water szzzzeems too quick for thiszz one.”

Crowley’s head snapped to his left. Beelzebub stood by the cage, their eyes trained on Crowley like he was a spider crawling around the confined space of a glass. Fittingly, they looked like they were contemplating ripping off his legs.

“What are you doing here?!” He hissed, reaching out to grab the bars again before remembering. He clutched his hands; the holy ground was actually leaving marks. Little red dots were growing over his skin in rashes, and each area of exposed skin that touched the cage were growing into burns.

“The trial was due to be held in Hell, but apparently that wasn’t up to ssstandard,” they replied flatly, and crossed their arms as their eyes rolled over Gabriel, who seemed just as delighted to see them there, “I suppose you could szzzay I have _Diplomatic Immunity_.”

“For now. For the sake of this trial.” Gabriel quickly interjected.

“Anyway, the usual punishments don’t feel like they cut it.” They drawled.

Gabriel nodded in agreement, putting his hands behind his back. “You both went way over the line. No man’s territory. Fraternizing with the enemy, actively getting in the way of The Great Plan…”

“Thwarting The Great Plan…”

“Yes _thank you_ , Aziraphale.” Gabriel shook his head. But then a smile that made Crowley shiver broke out over his face. “But that’s not the only thing, is it? Fraternizing isn’t the proper word for it, isn’t that right Anthony?”

Michael’s heels click-clacked from behind Crowley’s cage, before she appeared next to Beelzebub. She kept her distance as the demon handed her a file. The flies alone were enough to make anyone want to keep a distance. Gabriel took the file and plucked out a photo at random, not a photo _exactly_ , as some of the images were taken before the camera was invented. Perhaps they were check-ups, screenshots of reality itself. The one Gabriel held just then was of Crowley and his angel sat together, perhaps the mid-18th century. It was hard to tell save for the clothes. He set it back in the file, pulled out another picture. A more recent one during the run-up to Armageddon. They’d ran over a young woman on a bike, and were in the motions of getting out of the Bentley.

“Well, I know you might get the idea already, but… best to see for yourself.” Gabriel carefully handed the file through the bars. Crowley was tempted to grab at him, bite him, do whatever, but it wasn’t worth it. Anything he did would no doubt be deflected onto his angel. So he took the file, his eyes unblinking and set on the Archangel until he moved back away from the cage. Crowley looked through the images. There were ones of them coming out of the bookshop, ones of them out to dinner, ones of them…

“ _Aziraphale_ ,” Gabriel shook his head as he looked over at the bound angel, “our jobs, our reason for creation, may be for the sake of love and healing and… all that, but to do that? To, how do I put it…? Know a demon in the _biblical sense_?” He grinned – or he grimaced. Whatever his mouth did was a fine line between the two. Aziraphale looked down at his bound wrists, but he didn’t look ashamed. And that infuriated Gabriel.

“You… took pictures of us?! Like this?!” Crowley yelled from the cage, throwing the images out from between the gaps. Beelzebub picked up one. “ _You watched us?!_ ”

“You didn’t even seduce him, did you?” Beelzebub droned, waving the image in disappointment, “you let the _angel_ tempt _you_. Could you be any more of a waste?” Crowley turned and glared at the other demon. Their skin was reddened too, though it was hard to tell if it was like that anyway, what with the flies nibbling at their infected skin. Having said that though, the celestial atmosphere was causing a great many of them to drop dead. “I would have found it funny if you’d gotten the angel to fall. You’d have gone a rank up if you’d done that. But no. You _loved_ him too much.”

“Now hang on,” Gabriel interrupted again, leaning on the bars of the cage, “you never know, that could have been the case.” He raised an eyebrow at Beelzebub like he was trying to tell them something. Whatever it was, Crowley didn’t understand yet, but Beelzebub certainly did. Their flicker of a smirk worried him. “And, obviously, if this situation was just a drawn-out attempt at dragging an angel into Hell, we would be much more understanding.”

Crowley was silent. Aziraphale raised his head, frowning in confusion. But Gabriel turned away from the other angel to face Crowley, looming over him on the other side of the bars. “So could that be it? Have I cracked the case? Because if that _was_ what had truly been going on,” he nodded to Aziraphale’s direction as he addressed Crowley, “we would have no reason to punish Aziraphale. What monsters would we be to punish the victim of a wily tempter? What do you say, Anthony?”

Crowley opened his mouth to speak, but for the first time in 6000 years he couldn’t think of what to say . Gabriel would… spare Aziraphale…?

“All you have to do, Anthony, is admit your guilt. You don’t have to drag a celestial being into your mess. Admit it was all a ploy, a scam. The gig is up. Demons can’t _really_ feel love, after all, right?”

“That’szzz right,” Beelzebub narrowed their eyes at Crowley, scowling nearly. “Love is stripped from you the moment you enter Hell. It’sss not possible.”

“Exactly. So what will it be, Anthony?” Gabriel moved back so Crowley could see Aziraphale. His angel was staring straight at him, shock washed over his face like a bucket of cold water.

Could Crowley save Aziraphale whatever agonies they had in store for him? Was it just a trick? Whatever it was, it could be his only chance. His angel’s face… he was willing Crowley to not say it, to not play into what they wanted. But… Crowley loved Aziraphale. He would still be punished, but if his own suffering could stop them from hurting his angel… He swallowed hard.

“It’s true. It’s all true.”

“Crowley…” Aziraphale said softly.

“I can’t love. I can’t even remember the feeling.” He insisted, talking over Aziraphale. All he had to do was convince them. Maybe try to convince himself – he wouldn’t be seeing his angel – _the_ angel – after this anyway. He probably wouldn’t see anything except flame after. “It was just an act and I made you fall for it! You were an idiot right from the start! What kind of angel believes a serpent the moment they meet?!”

Aziraphale stared at Crowley.

“You’re useless to me if you don’t fall! All this effort I put in and you’re _too fucking stupid_ to fall like you were meant to!” He shut his eyes, masking the heartbreak with anger. _Focus on the anger. Nothing else._ “I NEVER LOVED YOU! YOU’RE AN ANGEL! I DIDN’T CARE ABOUT YOU FOR A MOMENT!”

And Heaven was silent.

Crowley’s hands smoked as he gripped the consecrated bars of his cage, slowly looking up at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale was smiling.

“Oh love, thank you for trying.”

“No. No I mean it -!”

“You’re always so smart, Crowley,” Aziraphale shook his head as Gabriel stared at him in confusion. He was still smiling, “how on Earth can you not see what’s going on?” He looked down at his bound hands, his wing tips brushing around the stairs. “They were never going to let me go.”

Gabriel clenched his jaw, turning properly to Aziraphale. Beelzebub could barely contain their laughter behind their cracked lips.

“I love you _so much_ , Anthony Crowley.” A tear ran down Aziraphale’s smiling face, and with that he was doomed.

Gabriel only looked more enraged, and he nodded at an angel on the right. Crowley looked back down at the images littering the floor. But the sounds of heavy, mechanical clicking and machines groaning made Crowley look up. A few angels on either side of them were dragging huge silver chains, 2 in total, and each ending in hooks. Aziraphale closed his eyes.

“Wh- what are you doing?! What’s going on?! GABRIEL!” Crowley panicked, reaching through the bars. But the space was too thin between, and he could feel the burning heat through the sleeve of his jacket. Beelzebub was laughing.

“Well,” Gabriel clicked his neck and straightened his jacket, “we agreed that the usual corrective measurements weren’t good enough for this unique situation. Falling was too straightforward. So,” he turned to Crowley, “tell me, Anthony, what would you call an angel without wings?”

Crowley went pale. Aziraphale opened his eyes at that. He thought he was supposed to fall. He looked around at the chains, and didn’t even have time to react before several angels swamped him, pushing him down into place as his wings were stretched out.

Gabriel backed away from the cage at the perfect time, as both of Crowley’s arms reached out through the burning bars. “NO! DON’T YOU DARE!”

“Crowley -!” Aziraphale just managed to call out fearfully as his head was pushed against the floor. One of the angels cut away at the back of his beloved coat, and through his shirt until his back was bare. Then the first hooks were pushed through where his wings met the skin on his back, and he screamed.

“ANGEL!” He pressed his face against the bars, his cheeks and nose burning against them. He tried clawing at the bars until his fingers were red raw, but they stood fast and steady. He couldn’t get out.

Then the chains were pulled. 2 voices were screaming together. All Crowley could do was watch and reach to his angel as blood started to pool down his sides. Crowley couldn’t see the blood yet but he could smell it, stuck up his nose, suffocating him. He could smell the salt in Aziraphale’s tears as they poured down his cheeks. He’d thought visions of Hellfire and burning wings were the most despicable of nightmares, but this was so much worse. This was a nightmare he knew he couldn’t wake up from. Yet still he reached through the consecrated bars under there were blackened burns on his face and arms, and he still reached after that.

“LET HIM GO! STOP! PUNISH ME INSTEAD!” He begged, and Beelzebub snickered.

“This _is_ your punishment, Crowley.” They sneered. “You get to watch, helplezzly.”

“No! NO! AZIRA -!”

The next sound to silence Heaven was a wet _CRACK_.

The wings were flung away by the tugging chains, leaving a long trail of feathers and blood. Aziraphale’s mouth hung open in a silent scream, but he couldn’t make a single sound. He slumped forward and tumbled down the steps to Crowley’s cage. Crowley fell to his knees, grabbing still for Aziraphale. He was just about an inch out of reach. There were tears trailing down Crowley’s face, stinging his burns. His angel was limp, his eyes shut. He looked like he was barely breathing.

Gabriel inspected the wings, allowed the angels to unhook them and carry them off, before turning back to Crowley. “Michael. If you don’t mind.”

The cage suddenly vanished, and Michael hit Crowley over the head, in the same spot as last time.


	3. The Fallout of Heaven

Crowley didn’t remember much on the way back. He just remembered being in England, holding his angel to his chest. He just about remembered the car ride home, back to the bookshop. Each step up the stairs felt laborious but numbing. He’d climbed these same steps so many times with his angel, and in those times he’d felt warmth, euphoria flowing through him. He’d been able to smell Aziraphale’s excitement, taste it on his lips. But now the whole place felt hollow, cold. Locked in a single dreadful moment in time. Crowley’s lungs still stung with each breath, his body littered with burns that would take too long to heal. And all he could smell was his angel’s blood mingling with old books.

Aziraphale’s back had slowed from a crimson spurt to an ooze as the blood started to coagulate, and Crowley was careful to lay him down on his belly, pulling away the scraps of coat and shirt and waistcoat. Aside the huge gaping wounds, there were long shallow slices from where they’d cut at the clothes. One of his eyes was currently seared shut from the bars, so it took longer to bandage Aziraphale up. He sat by him, listening carefully for his breathing to make sure it didn’t suddenly stop. He was painstakingly slow and even clumsy with the bandages, but it was all he could offer. He’d never really had to patch himself up too badly before, and hadn’t looked into it. But he couldn’t take Aziraphale to a hospital; surely it wasn’t the same as a limb being ripped off (or two). And they’d ask about the wounds, how he’d got them, what exactly had been torn from his back. Crowley couldn’t go over it again. All he could hear was the cracking of the bones right before they came apart.

 _Crack_.

_Crack._

_CRACK_.

He shook his head to block out the sound, gently placed a throw over his angel, and watched him sleep somewhat fitfully. He would twitch suddenly, especially in his shoulders. Was it a muscle spasm? The injury had probably destroyed that entire area. Would Aziraphale be able to use his arms at all again? Sit up by himself? Move at all? Crowley didn’t know what to, or how to help. He thought of getting anaesthetic, but he couldn’t leave Aziraphale in case he woke up – and in case he never did again. He doubted he could bring himself to cauterize the wound and risk further injury and trauma.

The bandages were already going red.

Crowley grimaced, but the sound of the door went downstairs. The little gold bell jingled as someone came in. Didn’t he lock it? Reluctantly, he pulled away from Aziraphale and went back down to the shop.

Humans. A young man and woman kept close to one another, chatting as they flicked through a pile of books on the counter. They looked up to greet the demon. “Hey – oh.”

Crowley had forgotten about his own injuries crossing over his face. The burn holes in his jacket. His eyes flickered from gold to an acidic yellow, but that was the only thing they didn’t seem to notice.

“Um, we’re looking for a certain book…” The man began.

“Get out.”

“Excuse me -?”

“GET OUT! THE PAIR OF YOU! _FUCK OFF!_ ” Scales flashed over his skin, cracking his burns, as he marched to them. He kept shouting over and over until he was dragging the pair out by their collars, chucking them down the little steps to the door until they were in a confused, frightened puddle together. Crowley slammed the door shut with enough force to nearly rip off the doorknob. “FUCK OFF! BASTARDS! THE LOT OF YOU!” He screamed up at the ceiling, his fist slamming on the desk again and again until the wood bowed under his now-bleeding hand. The door locked, as did the several new locks that had materialized, sealing it to the wall. He couldn’t hear the thump upstairs.

He wanted to burn Heaven until its ashes snowed over Earth until they reached Hell. He wanted to strangle Gabriel and all the other winged fuckers in his constrictive grip until they discorporated. Until every shred of their beings were destroyed. And that would be nothing compared to what he wanted to do to Hell.

“HE DIDN’T DO ANYTHING WRONG! HE’S THE ONLY GOOD ONE OUT OF ALL OF YOU! _YOU SICK FUCKS_!”

Eventually, eventually, Crowley stopped screaming. Not because he wasn’t angry anymore, but his throat felt close to shredding under his skin. He leaned against the desk and buried his head in his hands, and cried out of frustration and rage and tragedy.

His ears perked up then, and through the haze he could hear something. Running water. Upstairs.

He bolted up the stairs 3 at a time to the bedroom. Aziraphale was gone, and the blanket had been dragged off the bed. “AZIRAPHALE?!” His blood boiled. If they did anything else to his angel -

Running water. The bathroom?

Crowley followed the sound – and the blood trail – to the bathroom, pushing open the door. Aziraphale was sat in a corner of the shower cubicle, facing the tiled walls. Icy water was gushing out of the shower head and flowing over him. The bandages hung loosely from his shoulders, and his bared wounds had ribbons of pink trailing down with the water, staining his suit pants.

“What are you doing?!” He reached in, holding his angel’s arms to move him in a panic. The water was chilling as it soaked Crowley’s hair and arms and trailed down his back, but Aziraphale’s skin was hot to the touch.

“I feel like… I’m on fire.” Aziraphale breathed, staring straight down at the puddling water. He was soaked through. “Did I fall…? Am I in Hell…?”

Crowley watched him, crawling over to Aziraphale. His head blocked the water from reaching his angel’s, and when Aziraphale looked up at him his eyes were glassy, the bright blue clouded over until they were as grey as a January morning sky. But his features softened dreamily. “Crowley, there you are… I was looking for you, dear.”

Crowley swallowed hard, reaching up and shutting off the water. “You’re going to get sick, angel.” He managed to croak, guiding Aziraphale out of the shower. He wrapped a towel around his shoulders, careful of the injuries.

“It hurts…”

“I’m sorry.”

“It _hurts_ , Crowley.” He whimpered quietly, leaning his head on Crowley’s chest, and cried with what little energy he had.

“I’m… sorry. I’m sorry.” Crowley wrapped his arms around Aziraphale, stroking his wet hair. He was so warm, clammy almost. “I couldn’t, I could stop it. I couldn’t save you. I’m so sorry.”

It wasn’t long before Aziraphale lost consciousness again. Crowley looked down at him as he went limp, and checked he was still breathing. He was.

And Crowley was, in a way, alone. He dried Aziraphale, replaced his bandages, and put him back on the bed. He was still dripping head to toe, his shoes squeaking with every step.

He stroked Aziraphale’s hair. “I’m so sorry, angel.”


	4. A Call For Help

Anathema had felt something was horribly off that day. She’d woken up from a nightmare – well Newt had woken her up – that she could no longer remember. But she could remember the dread. It hung over her the whole day like an uncomfortable scarf she just couldn’t shake off.

“Ana,” Newt called out from downstairs, “Adam’s at the door.”

Jasmine Cottage had been wrecked during the storm, and yet it had miraculously found itself in tip top condition. Actually, it was better than when Anathema moved in.

Adam was sat by the kitchen table when Anathema came down, holding some magazines she’d let him borrow. Dog was scratching his ear under the table, then licked whatever he’d scratched off onto his paw. He had no idea what he’d stepped in but it looked like it tasted nice.

“Aren’t you still grounded?” She raised an eyebrow at him.

“I had to return these,” he smiled as he pointed to the magazines. For once, the boy had an aura. It was bright and warm and happy, and Anathema couldn’t help but smile.

“That didn’t answer the question, Adam.” She crossed her arms.

“I mean… being grounded doesn’t mean he shouldn’t return the books.” Newt piped up behind his coffee. Adam nodded in enthusiastic agreement.

“Don’t encourage him!” She smacked the top of Newt’s head with a magazine, and he gargled his drink in protest.

The phone began to ring, and Newt put down his coffee and went to get it as Anathema sat down by Adam. “So, do your parents know you came round to drop these off?”

Adam nodded, but he looked like he wanted to say something. Anathema raised an eyebrow, prompting him. “They know I came here. But I went to the library too!” He reached into his backpack and pulled out a big book, “I know you said you’re an occultist, not a witch, but the woman at the library says they’re the same thing.” He left out the other things the woman at the library said.

Anathema blinked in surprise as Adam picked out a page confidently, and pointed at an illustration Anathema had seen countless times in the past, by different artists and in different books. It was a circle of women totally naked, flowers woven into their long flowing hair, as they danced merrily around a pyre on a dark night with a full moon. And in the forest, of course.

“I kept seeing it in nearly all the books… do you do that?” Adam asked brazenly.

“…No. No witch does that.”

“But all the books I saw about witches have this.”

“That’s because nearly all books about witches are written by men, Adam,” she gave him a look, “do you want some lemonade while you’re here?”

“Ana, there’s uh, someone important on the phone for you.” Newt sounded worried. She frowned and got up, leaving Adam and Dog in the kitchen before taking the phone from Newt.

“Hello…?”

“Anathema Device, right?” She recognized the demon’s voice, though strained as it sounded. “Remember me? The end of the world? You hit my Bentley?”

“You mean that time you ran me over?” She frowned. Newt stared at her, and she realized she’d forgotten to tell him that part.

“Details. I don’t suppose you’re busy, are you?”

“I might be.”

“Okay, fine! Whatever! I’m sorry!” Crowley ran a hand through his hair. “Look, I need a favour. What I really need right now is a witch.”

“For what? Why should I trust a _demon_?”

Newt turned to Adam, who shrugged.

“Because if it wasn’t for me and my… friend, we’d all be drowning in Hellfire, and that boy would be tearing the world into splinters. You’re welcome, by the way!” Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose, the fires of anger building up through him yet again. But he pushed them back. He hated, truly hated asking for help, but he couldn’t think of a single other contact that would even bother with him once word got out. “Look, I need help. Something bad has happened. Maybe not world ending to you… but it is to me.”

Anathema was quiet for a few moments. She was cautious, but…

“Where can I find you?”

After a while, she hung up and went back to the kitchen, heading straight for the medical cupboard.

“You okay?” Newt picked up his cup again.

“Fine, I’m fine. I need to go to London.” She packed a small bag of bandages and antiseptic supplies, zipping it up and shoving it in her handbag.

“Why?” Adam frowned.

“Uh…” she cleared her throat, “remember those two guys from a few days ago? Who helped you against…?” She pointed downward.

“The one with cat eyes and the posh one?” He replied.

“Yeah, pretty much.” Anathema thought they looked more like snake eyes. “They need my help. Well, they need a witch’s help but I’m the next best thing.”

“Why don’t I drive you?” Newt stood up, picking anathema’s coat off the rail to hand to her.

“You’re going right now?” Adam looked concerned. “Are they alright?”

“They’ll be fine Adam,” she smiled reassuringly at him as Newt went to finish his coffee, “I’ll be there to help, so they’d definitely be okay.”

Adam nodded a little, standing up and picking up his backpack to leave the adults to it. He glanced down at one of the magazines, one with a little rainbow on the front cover. “Are they gay?”

Newt choked on the last mouthful of his drink.


	5. Blowing Out A Candle

Anathema looked up at the old bookshop. The brown paint on the outside that bordered on red had never been retouched – at least, not in the usual manner. It was on that perfect balancing spot between old and fresh, worn in and looked after. She held Newt’s hand. It was rare to find auras on inanimate objects or buildings, but this one was glowing gently, like a candle. The place was loved dearly.

Newt knocked gingerly on the door.

“You’re gonna need to knock a bit harder than that.” She smiled quietly at him.

“But the sign says Closed…”

Anathema gave him a funny look. “They called us.”

“I know, but…”

She rolled her eyes, and couldn’t help but find him endearing.

They could hear a latch unlocking. And then another. And then an entire 10 seconds of metal clinks and clangs. Anathema and Newt looked at each other before the door swung open, and the demon Crowley leaned against the doorway. Part of Anathema wondered if he leaned to look cool or if he was genuinely exhausted, while the rest of her focused on the ghastly burns down his face. They were already in the ugly stage of the healing process where the charred skin had begun to peel away, leaving pink almost sticky skin underneath. Newt was visibly taken aback, and Anathema didn’t blame him. Neither did Crowley really.

“Long time no see, Anathema.” He nodded at her, his pupils like thin black cuts in his eyes. Then he looked at Newt. “And you, I guess.”

“What exactly did you need help with?” Anathema began, clutching her bag to her side. Crowley gestured for them to come in, and shut the door behind the pair. Anathema counted at least twenty locks on the door, several of which locked themselves. Despite everything, she found such casual magic a little unnerving. It would take years to get that good at magic if you had to learn from scratch.

“It’s Aziraphale.”

“The angel?”

“ _My_ angel.” He looked pointedly at them, before shaking his head. He pinched the bridge of his nose, his nerves still fried - beyond repair it seemed like. “Might come as a surprise, but Heaven and Hell weren’t actually all that happy with us stopping the apocalypse.”

Anathema nodded. The purple-eyed man in the suit. The strange girl – or boy? – covered in sores and spots that looked like they were just begging to be popped. Their auras had consumed her vision so much more than Crowley’s was now. Blinding light fighting with consumptive dark. She didn’t want to see them again, for fear that she might not see anything else after. That their very presence would burn through her eyes.

“So,” he clapped, snapping Anathema back to the present, “they arranged a special punishment for us both. And now we’re dealing with the consequences.” He skirted around what he wanted to say, for fear it would burn his tongue on the way out.

“Angels who go against Heaven become… fallen angels, don’t they?” Newt gestured loosely; that was pretty much all he knew about religion, had simply never looked into it before. But he found he’d had a lot more interest after everything.

“Usually. Not this time.” Crowley bit his inner cheek, putting his hands in his pockets. “Do you want to know what Gabriel said to me? ‘What do you call an angel with no wings?’”

“He…?” Anathema raised a hand to her mouth. So that’s why she was called.

Crowley nodded solemnly.

“Can I… See him?”

Crowley gestured upstairs and led the way. Anathema looked back at Newt; she was worried. She thought back to when she was at school, watching other children ripping off the wings of beetles or butterflies or anything they could catch. The legs of spiders even, if they’d been unlucky with all others. The satisfied shrieks they would cry out as they showed off their findings. She’d watch the insects crawl about on the ground and in the soil, and then they’d slow, and then stop forever. All living things had some form of aura, but once they were dead the colours and light would drain from them, go out like candles. She fought the urge to vomit.

Newt tried giving her a reassuring smile, taking her hand as they walked and squeezing it.

Crowley hesitated as he reached for the door handle. There was still a stain on it that had once been red, but had since turned brown. He twisted the knob and they walked in. Aziraphale hadn’t gotten up since Crowley went downstairs, thankfully.

But Anathema dropped to her knees as soon as she set her eyes on Aziraphale.

“Ana?!” Newt helped her up again, letting her lean on him. Crowley watched her cautiously.

“I’m – I’m okay, just…” She looked down at her feet for a minute, before taking in a deep breath and going over to Aziraphale’s side, who was still in a troubled sleep. He was pale, sickly so, and wrapped up in a grey dressing gown. Like a candle slowly going out.

Crowley crouched by the bed and roused his angel gently, stroking his cheek with a knuckle. “Angel, angel come on.”

She softened at that, watching the demon be so gentle. Anathema had never read or heard of demons being empathetic, being affectionate. Then again, besides the eyes and aura, there wasn’t much about Crowley that screamed “demon” to her.

“Crowley,” she sat by the end of the bed, Newt putting his hands on her shoulders. He wasn’t sure if she’d tripped or collapsed. Crowley looked up at her and she swallowed, “…he’s dying.”

Crowley stared at Anathema until she wanted to look away. She didn’t.

“He won’t.”

“But he is.”

“He _can’t_.” He tried to sound assertive, firm in the matter, but he looked at Aziraphale’s pale face. There was no chance they’d be given backup bodies, no point in even pondering on it. And wings didn’t come with the package anyway – they were so much more important to the soul than the body. When Crowley fell, his wings burned to a crisp, but the fire had seemed to sink into the feathers and muscle and bone. The fire had become a part of him, burning through his soul until it _became_ his soul. With Aziraphale’s wings gone… did that mean a piece of his soul was gone too?

He’d not heard of a soul being split into pieces. Was it even possible?

Immortality was suddenly so much more complicated than Crowley remembered it being. He stroked Aziraphale’s face, biting his inner cheek until he tasted blood.

“What do I do?” He whispered.

“Well…” Anathema sighed, opening her bag, “You asked me to bring a few medical bits. We could start with that.”

“How did they…?” Newt swallowed as they both looked over at him, “I mean, was it… would it be like a surgery or…?”

“I assure you it was a lot more Medieval than that.” Crowley grit his teeth. “Imagine being held down and having both of your arms torn out of place, out of socket and everything. Like a horrific game of tug-of-war.” Newt went white, and Crowley looked back at his angel. “Now imagine doing that to a dove, or a swan.”

“Heaven did this?” Anathema shook her head, “That’s barbaric. Wouldn’t that be Hell’s style more? No offense.”

“None taken, I don’t have anything to do with those bastards either.” He hissed. “You’d be surprised what Heaven is capable of. They’re not _good_ , they’re just the other side of an ineffable coin.”

Anathema swallowed, and Aziraphale stirred, looking up at Crowley. His eyes had gone grey.

“Hello, dear.” He whispered, just managing to lay his hand over his demon’s.

“We have some guests over. Remember Anathema? And the err...?”

“Newt.”

“That one.”

Aziraphale looked over at the couple, every moment was slow and looked laborious. Anathema tried to manage a smile. “Hi.”

“How lovely. Haven’t had guests in a long time, have we love?” He shut his eyes and smiled, leaning his head on Crowley’s knee. He still sounded delirious.

“We never have guests, angel.”

“Hm…”

“We should, uh,” Anathema piped up before Aziraphale nodded off again. He glanced at her curiously, and she continued, “uh well, we came by to help patch you up.”

Aziraphale was quiet as Crowley stroked his hair. “There isn’t much you can do, my dear.” He said solemnly.

“Just… let them help.” Crowley said, and Aziraphale looked up at him with a few moments of clarity.

“You called them to help?” He smiled sadly, and eventually he sat upright, thought it was a lot of work. He tried not to make much noise as he gripped the covers under him, every movement of his arms burning all through his back. It took 5 minutes, with Crowley and Newt helping him, to simply sit up. He took a proper look at his demon. “Your face… what happened?”

“I was in Heaven, remember?” He shut one eye on the side of the burns as Aziraphale’s fingers delicately traced the crusty cracks of skin. Aziraphale looked heartbroken even through his own pain, and Crowley tried not to hug him and hiss and the humans until they ran home. “D’you mind if she looks…?” Crowley asked. Aziraphale opened his mouth to speak, but shut it and simply nodded.

Crowley grimaced, and loosened the dressing gown just enough to let the back slip down. Cool air drifted over Aziraphale’s skin and he sighed softly at the relief. Newt, on the other hand, nearly gagged. The two wounds were much worse than Anathema was prepared for. Thankfully, whatever they had done to the poor angel hadn’t caused a significant amount of skin to be removed. But they looked like… holes. Holes gouged into the angel’s back, the surrounding skin pretty much flapping over like curtains.

“I… I might actually throw up.” Newt had to exclaim, and Crowley pointed to the bathroom with a glare. Aziraphale looked down at his lap, almost embarrassed by the gashes.

Newt took his leave and did his best not to throw up. Anathema couldn’t help but stare into the gorges, disgust and pity and hopelessness and _curiosity_ gluing her eyes in place.

“I… I don’t have anything to fix this.” She admitted. “I have antiseptic fluid, and bandages, but these are open wounds. They haven’t even scabbed over. I’d need…”

“I’ll get it. I’ll get anything.” Crowley said desperately as Aziraphale rested his head on his shoulder.

“…A scalpel? Surgical thread, a needle… He’d need painkillers, good ones. _Strong_ ones.” She shook her head again as Newt returned, looking pale but thankfully not smelling of vomit. “He needs a hospital.”

“Are you saying you know a single doctor who would operate on him? Without questions?” Crowley looked pointedly at her. He knew he was asking too much, but he didn’t have a choice.

“What I’m _saying_ is that he needs hospital treatment.”

Crowley bit his bottom lip, before shifting and standing up. “Crowley…?” Aziraphale looked up at him, still holding his hand.

“I’ll be back in a minute. Don’t worry.” He kissed Aziraphale ever so gently before marching off to the bathroom and shutting the door.

The Wellington Hospital was so big it was used to chaos. It didn’t much notice when a little more was added to the mix. A security guard was shaken awake by a sleepy doctor, claiming he’d had an awful nightmare of a snake with wings. The doctor looked worried, as he’d had a very similar nightmare. A nurse got yelled at for not counting the stock of painkillers properly, though she was certain she’d done it right. A new doctor began to panic when he couldn’t find his tools in the middle of an operation. A mother was yelling at her son when another doctor couldn’t find his sutures, certain he’d hid them when she told him not to touch anything. A receptionist was eavesdropping on a man trying to explain to a doctor why he was carrying a cardboard box of what looked to be unopened bandages, syringes, and medicine. There came an ear-splitting scream, and by the time she’s gotten out of her chair and around the corner, there was nothing but a passed out on the floor, her face a sterile white.

Crowley came out of the bathroom with the box, and Newt wondered why the demon had asked Anathema to bring anything if he’d had all that in his medicine cupboard.


	6. Patching Things Up

Stitch by stitch, cut by cut, bandage by bandage. Aziraphale’s back was sterilised, covered up in layers of white cotton, and he was laid back down to sleep. Anathema thought she might have seen a flicker of life, but it could have been the way the light caught in her eyes. It might have just been wishful thinking.

Newt busied himself making tea. Crowley watched his angel as Anathema took off the latex gloves, frowning at how dry they’d made her hands. She took out a small bottle of moisturiser from her bag as she watched the demon watching the angel. And they were all quiet for a while.

“How do you know he’s dying?” Crowley had been listening for his angel’s breathing, waited until the sedatives had kicked in, until his breath was relaxed and even. It was the first time it had been so composed.

Anathema sat by the desk, rubbing the cream into her skin. “I can see auras. His is…” She grimaced. Crowley looked over at her, “…it’s faded. Fading. Yours is intense, so’s Newt’s. But his is worn out.”

Crowley swallowed. He had to do more. He couldn’t lose his angel. What was the point without Aziraphale? Saving the world, avoiding certain destruction, reaching blindly for a happy ending. Without Aziraphale, the world may as well have burned up. The oceans may as well boil, the stars may as well fall. If Aziraphale was lost, Crowley may as well bathe in holy water.

“How did you get those burns?” She asked.

“They put me in a cage. Consecrated ground.” He shrugged. “Nothing compared to what he went through.”

_Crack. Crack. Crack._

“Let me patch them up.”

“They’ll heal on their own soon enough.” They were, in truth, taking their bloody time. As were the ones on his hands and on his arm.

“They need to be looked at. Demon or not, you look like shit.” Anathema finally admitted.

“I don’t need -!” He began.

“My help? You don’t need my help?” She cocked an eyebrow at him, before looking pointedly at Aziraphale. “You need so much more than my help in this, Crowley. Now get over here, and _let me patch you up_.”

Eventually, Crowley crossed the room and sat opposite Anathema. She put on a new pair of gloves and picked up a pair of metal tweezers. He didn’t like how intensely she stared at his face, how close she was to him. He rarely let anyone besides his angel this close, and had to fight the urge to flinch back into his chair and hiss at her. Especially once the tweezers started picking at flaking black skin. He clenched his jaw, and Anathema worked quietly picking away and cutting here and there to stop healthy skin from being ripped away. Whenever Crowley tried to speak, she would lightly smack his other cheek to keep his face still. The absolute _nerve_ of the woman!

Newt came back in with tea, saw the pile of black skin on a tissue, and suddenly didn’t want his cup. But he drank it anyway, manners and all. _One of these days_ , he thought back to try and distract himself from the pile, _I’ll have a cup of tea and try to stomach having condensed milk with it. Just to see what it’s like… maybe when Ana isn’t in._

Anathema wrapped up the tissue – Newt could hear a distinctive crunch – and dabbed a cloth of antiseptic fluid on the sticky, pink skin. But when Crowley couldn’t bite back his hiss, she snapped right back into her seat.

Newt jolted, and made a move to stand by Anathema’s chair cautiously. He didn’t know tongues could look like… that.

Crowley resisted clutching his stinging face, not wanting to risk infection. He took a deep breath and resigned himself to holding his hand out for the cloth. “…Sorry. I can do that myself.”

Anathema’s heart was still racing as she handed him the cloth, he could hear it. His entire face scrunched up as he dabbed the cloth against the tender skin, and after some percentage of an eternity he put the cloth down and Anathema took a new package of gauze.

“I can…” He took the bandages from her too, and went to the mirror, it was the least he could do. He needed help, not mothering, he thought to himself. But he discarded the thought. The pair of them could have gone home as soon as they saw his face, could have even hung up. They were being nice. Aziraphale would have lightly scolded him for his bristly attitude. He wanted Aziraphale to.

There was no way he could bandage himself without covering one of his eyes, and he did so reluctantly. It was going to be a pain trying to wear his shades, and his skin was still stinging.

“Did you get burned anywhere else?” She asked.

“I’m fine.”

“There’re burns on your hands.” Newt pointed out. Crowley glared at him until he looked back into his cup.

He was ushered back into his seat, and Anathema raised an eyebrow as she spotted more burns going up one of his jacket sleeves. “Your arms too?”

Crowley sighed. “Just one, it barely reaches my elbow.” He sighed again when she gestured. “You’re going out of your way to be nice. Why?”

Anathema gave him a look. “You called for us.”

“Yeah not to help me. To help him. I’m a demon.”

“You both need help.” She said simply.

“He’s an angel. We should be focusing on him.” He shrugged. “Why would you help a demon when you could help an angel?”

“Why would a demon help save the world?”

Crowley tried to say a dozen or so things at once, and ended up not saying anything at all.

Anathema continued, “It might not be any of my business, but if an angel is going out with you, maybe you’re not just some demon.”

Crowley frowned, but took his jacket off. And Anathema sat in silence again as he let her work on his hands. It was much harder, the burns deeper in his skin and more cracked from having to use his hands constantly. But it got easier as she worked on his wrist, and further up his arm. Crowley wondered if the marks were going to be permanent. He realized he didn’t care.

“Why did you… You know...?” Newt asked.

“Why did I what?” He knew what Newt was asking.

“I mean, how did you fall? If you don’t mind me asking.”

Crowley did mind. “I asked questions. Was too curious. That’s all it took back in those days.” He grimaced as he stared down at his hands. “Dismembering another angel? Nah, that’s fine. Slap on the wrist. But questioning authority? How dare I.”

Anathema and Newt looked sadly at each other.

“I don’t remember reading any fallen angel called Crowley,” said Anathema, “not in any of the bibles I read. Did you have another name?”

He nodded slowly, wincing as she snipped a bit of fresh skin, dabbing at the red with a clean tissue.

“What was it?”

He was quiet, and he slumped in his chair best as he could. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

And that was the end of that. Cleaning the new skin with the cloth was far more painful than cleaning his face, and he had to let her help bind each finger individually. Thankfully she used many plasters instead of actual gauze, allowing them some flexibility as the knuckles weren’t sealed in place. But they felt restricted, and he knew he was going to hate every second of the slow healing process.

“Is God really that…?” Newt hesitated, suddenly worried that he was being listened to.

“Unfair? Is that the word you’re looking for?” Crowley drawled, before shrugging with a bitter laugh. “Apparently so. Ineffable, isn’t it? Ridiculous, nonsensical, absolutely _fucking_ ineffable.”

“Language.”

Crowley looked over at Aziraphale. He grimaced as he tried to sit up, and Newt crossed the room to help him. Crowley was by his side the next moment, and he looked up at his demon. “Your face,” he started again.

“Anathema.” Crowley said as the witch in question crossed the room to greet Aziraphale. He smiled up at her gratefully.

“It shouldn’t take too long to heal.” He reached for Crowley, who sat by him, and Aziraphale ran a gentle hand over his demon’s exposed skin. His angel’s hand was warm, and he still seemed to have a fever. And his eyes were a cold grey. But at least he seemed more collected, more alert.

Crowley smiled for the first time since Heaven. Newt put an arm around Anathema, hoping a little to go home soon. It had been a tiring, unexpectedly gruesome, and inquisitive day.

Aziraphale looked over at them as if just remembering they were there. “Thank you, so much.”

Anathema smiled back. “Get well soon, maybe one day we can go on a double date.” She cocked her head jokingly.

“I’d like that.” He smiled again.

Crowley saw them both out, before locking up and returning upstairs. He cleaned the tools and put them back in the box, and Aziraphale watched him from the bed. He didn’t have the energy to actually get up though, sitting up for so long had knocked it out of him. And the pain in his back was slowly starting to return to him.

“I heard her, you know.” He said softly.

“Heard what?” Crowley went back to his angel, laying on the other side of the bed.

Aziraphale looked tired. He put a hand over his demon’s.

“She saw my aura.”

Crowley froze.

“She said I’m…” Aziraphale clenched his jaw, his voice going quiet as he felt his throat tighten.

“Don’t say it. Don’t even think about it.” Crowley sat up.

“I’m _dying_?” He looked down at his hands, pale clammy skin. The thought of death had never occurred to him. And why would it have? If his body died, he could just get a new one. It would be a pain but he could. The pain of death was inconvenient but that was it. He would still exist. He would still come back.

But now… was that an option? Would he pass into Heaven or Hell as a soul, destined to wonder aimlessly in either bliss or agony? Or would he fizzle up altogether? Cease to exist?

“No. You’re not. You’re not.” Crowley said firmly, quickly, wiping away the tears that had started to roll down his round cheeks. It was like he hoped the more he said it, the more it would be okay. “Look at me. You’re not dying. I won’t let you die. I won’t let that happen.”

“I don’t want to die.” He wept, leaning against Crowley who held him. “I don’t want to leave you.”

“You won’t.” He hoped. “You won’t.” He prayed.

“This is too cruel.” Aziraphale clutched his demon’s shirt, nuzzling into him best as he could. Crowley couldn’t respond. What else was there to say? That it was all going to be okay? That they would get their revenge? How could they? They were two outcasts against two monoliths, all-consuming, all-enrapturing. Crowley was powerless. And he hated it so fiercely, so menacingly, so desperately.

“I’m sorry.”

“Why?” Aziraphale looked up at Crowley, which he wasn’t expecting.

“…If it wasn’t for me you’d still be in Heaven.”

Aziraphale sniffled, but smiled a little. “You think I’d be happy up there?”

“It must be better than… this.” He gestured despairingly. “I’ve doomed you.”

Aziraphale’s eyes softened, and he straightened up to kiss his demon gently. Crowley leaned into the kiss, stroking Aziraphale’s cheeks once again. The plasters felt rough against his skin.

“You know I was so scared in Heaven. I was terrified. Every waking moment.” He said softly. “I was so scared of what they would do if I stepped out of line. If I said the wrong thing or did the wrong thing. Even if I did the right thing, at the wrong time.”

Crowley listened to Aziraphale’s voice. It was the most he’d spoken in days.

“But you’ve made me so happy. For once I wasn’t frightened anymore.” He smiled.

“But this was… We were risking everything. Wasn’t that terrifying?”

“I was already afraid.” He said softly. “The only new fear was what they would do to you, my dear. Knowing you has been the most confusing aspect of my existence, but undeniably the best.” He took one of Crowley’s hands, and kissed his bandaged palm. “I won’t let myself die. Not while I still have you.”


End file.
